


Nocturne

by flyweeabooty



Category: Logan (2017) - Fandom, Wolverine (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Biting, Calogan, Drabbles, Eventual Smut, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyweeabooty/pseuds/flyweeabooty
Summary: This is a series of calogan drabbles that I may add onto later. This is what I have so far.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For each chapter I write I'll include a song. The song for this chapter is "You Know Where to Find Me" by Imogen Heap.
> 
> https://youtu.be/Jf-STPX-v2I

It’s all around him, restraining him, suffocating him. He begins to thrash, desperate to fight his way free from whatever’s holding on. A snarl erupts from his throat, and three of his claws find their way into something solid. Instinctively, he begins to tear, dragging through the material. There’s blood roaring in his ears along with the deafening sounds of gunfire and booming voices. The noises blend into an unintelligible cacophony until he can’t tell one thing from anything else. 

Suddenly, there’s a sound that's closer than the rest - loud and insistent enough to make itself well noticed. “LOGAN!”

His eyes snap open, and it’s like coming to the surface, breaking above the waves of the subconscious. Logan inhales like he hasn’t known oxygen in months, lungs burning as he sucks in air. Whatever was clinging to him is still there, and he rolls to try and throw it off, eyes wild and teeth still bared.

“Logan, stop!” The voice gets him to still for a moment. Logan twists his head the other way to locate the source of the command; he finds Caliban hovering two feet away, peering at him anxiously. “Stop moving. I’ll get the blanket off you.”

The discovery that he’s in his bed - a battered mattress on a sheet of plywood to keep it off the carpet- belatedly dawns on him. He realizes that his claws are imbedded in it, shoved right into the cotton padding and metal springs. 

A pair of white hands, illuminated only by the tiniest shaft of light peaking around the curtains, briefly ghost over his heaving chest. Caliban’s fingers are soon near his legs, pulling the cover off to disentangle them. When Logan feels a touch on his bicep, his hands twitch to force his claws to retract. It hurts, as always. He can feel the hot blood drip off his knuckles before the slits scab over.

Caliban retreats a few inches away again when Logan hisses and forces himself up. “Fuuck.” His body feels like fire, burning and itching in a way that has him grinding his teeth. Meanwhile his head is swimming, his sense of reality warped and distorted - like speech underwater.

He thinks he hears Caliban say something like, “You tore a hole in your mattress” but he doesn’t care; Logan just groans as he rolls onto his side and begins feverishly rubbing and scratching his arms.

The relief is short-lived. Logan growls when those pale hands return to clasp his wrists and pry his hands away. “Stop scratching. You’re making yourself bleed.”

“Fuck off.” He yanks his hands back - out of the other’s grasp.

Caliban, however, is not deterred - he crawls onto the shredded mattress next to Logan, placing a palm on his back. He can feel Logan hyperventilate, lungs emptying and refilling with air like the hand pump on a sphygmomanometer. “Deep breaths.” His accented voice chimes a gentle reminder.

He’s answered with a haggard, “Shut up” but Logan still complies, drawing a long, ragged breath as he leans into Caliban’s shoulder. This time he doesn’t pull away from the bony digits that rest on his carpals - he just focuses on breathing while blankly staring at the vacant mattress across the room. It’s pressed up neatly and tightly against the wall, a visual reminder of Caliban’s constant presence, always hovering just at the edge of his personal space. 

A few minutes later and his breathing has stabilized. Caliban’s cool hands have eased the itch, making it possible to focus on something other than the sensation of his own flesh crawling.

“You alright?” Caliban asks.

Drawing away with a nod, Logan grunts a vague, “Uhn.” Then he looks down at himself. There’s a half-a-dozen or so little scabs along the undersides of his forearms, still pink at the edges and coated in a thin layer of wet blood. The accelerated healing just makes him itch again. He turns attention to the mattress, which has a gash that runs all the way down to the wood baseboard. Exposed springs poke out of the gap like seedlings. Logan growls and heaves himself to his feet with a slight wince. God, he’s old. 

“Where are you going?”

“Wash the blood off.” His reply is a curt grumble. Caliban watches him shamble out of the room. He clicks his tongue as soon as Logan is past the threshold.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the curtains open and the moonlight pouring in, Logan’s view of the empty bed across the room from his is unobstructed. Caliban is upstairs in the tiny laundromat shared by all the residents of this building. At two in the morning, he’s the only person in there - and that’s the way it’s preferred

Something’s wrong. “Caliban’s fine.” Logan speaks aloud. The sound of his own voice reaching his ears confuses him for a second. It’s almost ritualistic - Logan’s mind turning, paranoid and insisting on the worst, his own self-directed reassurances, his eyes wandering the apartment while he waits for Caliban to return from his late-night outing (every time half convinced tonight will be the time he doesn’t come back). Something’s wrong. ‘He’s right upstairs. He’s okay. Nobody else is up there.’ The night is achingly still. His own breath and Charles’ faint snores from the other room are the only disruptions in the constant, overbearing quiet.

Logan doesn’t bother to put his shoes on - the cold seeping up from the floor into the soles of his bare feet ground him. Caliban’s scent lingers in the stairwell, having drifted down from the floor above. 

The tracker doesn’t look up from the shirt he’s folding as the door squeaks open. There’s no need for him to see who it is - he already knows from the musk of pine underlined by a metallic tang. “Come to check on me?”

There’s no verbal response, just the brush of a hand and a presence at his side as Logan silently busies himself with folding a towel. Eventually, the occasional graze of Caliban’s shoulder against his, the constant drum of the ancient washing machines, and the smell of clean linen calm him.

They return to the apartment together, arms laden with baskets full of folded clothes. 

The baskets are left on the floor - to be sorted and put away in the morning. Logan watches Caliban remove his shoes and move to draw the curtain shut. Black consumes the room, except for the faintest glow around the edges of the window, and he has to find his way to his beaten mattress by touch alone. He hears sheets rustle as Caliban likewise crawls into bed. The rustling ceases and is replaced by a soft sigh, followed by gentle breathing. On his back, Logan stares up into the dark, trying to get his scarred lungs to copy the calm rhythm of Caliban’s. It’s the same air, but somehow it seems to sit heavier in Logan’s chest, as if it’s colder on his side of the room. Maybe it is - he doesn’t know.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s something that fills Logan’s chest, a unidentifiable ache that expands his lungs until they press uncomfortably against his ribs as he watches engorged drops of rain roll down Caliban’s pale arms. He’s leaned over the railing of their tiny patio, gazing out into the din. The tree line that sits behind the apartment building sways in the wind. Logan stares at the ridges in the other’s spine, which can be made out even from under his thin cotton shirt. He swallows.

“Hey. It’s about to start storming. You should come in.”

The rain patters on the side of the building and on the concrete walkway at first, then begins to steadily thrum. Rolls of thunder follow bright sparks of light, and wind howls as it whistles through tree branches and narrow alleyways. Caliban is on the couch, illuminated by the television, which is broadcasting a flood warning. His knees are drawn up, a blanket laid over them, fingers playing with the fabric. It's like a living imitation of the moon, the way his white skin reflects the soft blue light, lending his arms and face an almost ethereal glow. Logan seats himself nearby, still leaving a respectful space between them, and forces his eyes to focus on the screen.

A few moments later he’s wrenching his gaze away from the TV to look at Caliban, who'd just prodded him in the side. He sees Caliban open his mouth to speak, but whatever he was going to say is interrupted by the television abruptly shutting off, leaving them in darkness.

He hears a rustle that's soon followed by a series of clicks. “Power's off.” Caliban huffs. “I'll find the torch.”

There's still spots of color at the edge of his vision, the afterimage from the television lingering on his retinas. Logan hears a few drawers open and shut. Eventually a beam of light illuminates part of the apartment as the flashlight clicks on.

“What were you going to say?”

“Hmm?” Caliban's confused face appears as he shuffles back into the parlour.

“Thought you were gonna’ say something” Logan clarifies, “before the power went off.”

“Oh… I can't remember now.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s evidence of Caliban’s presence everywhere Logan’s eyes rest; his dog-eared books on the coffee table, empty mug on the side table, blanket on the old sofa, and worn slippers by the door. Logan’s own proof of existence is a bit less… homely. There’s bottles of Jack Daniels, Baileys, and every other brand on the market haphazardly strewn here and there despite Caliban’s best attempts to keep them constrained to one cabinet. Logan’s jacket is a crumpled pile on a chair, hastily shed off like molt the minute he got home.

“The hell is this?” A familiar accent demands from the kitchen.

“What?” Logan inquires with only mild interest as he peers around the corner.

“This.” Caliban shuffles toward him, thrusting a splintered piece of wood trim in his face.

“It’s from cabinet. It came off - I’ll fix it later.”

“Oh it just ‘came off’ did it?” His tone is sarcastic and accusing. “You’re a little menace.”

Logan simply grunts in acknowledgement with no attempt to deny it. “Sometimes I break stuff. Sue me.”

Caliban rolls his eyes and deposits the piece into Logan’s breast pocket, giving it a little pat. “A menace.” He repeats. 

“Your menace.” Logan responds, managing a mischievous gleam despite how tired he is.

His companion scoffs and swats his shoulder before turning back to whatever he’d been doing. “Don’t flirt with me when I’m mad at you, dickhead. You’re still in trouble.” An amused snort from Logan answers him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more drabbles and little moments for you guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter is "I'll be Good" by James Young https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POqEVwROEQs

Sometimes Caliban wakes to find Logan's bed empty, only to venture out and find he's passed out on the couch. He'll call the unconscious man into wakefulness and insist he find a proper bed. He never touches Logan when rousing him - a regrettable line of scar tissue reminds him that it's just best to stand back and use his voice. 

Logan tries to keep everything under a tight control, but in those seconds where he's coming out of a nightmare there's little to distinguish reality from imagined foes. His adamenteum claws slide from his knuckles like daggers unsheathing, not to be stopped by anything in the way of their extension - be it wood, metal, or flesh. And it really is a damn shame when the quiet is overbearing and the chill creeps into Caliban's bones, but all he can do is stare wistfully at the unoccupied space at Logan's side.

There's always the smell of pine and overturned earth in that little apartment. Most of the time it reminds Caliban of evergreens and a hoof-beaten trail. Other times, when Logan hacks and coughs until his breath is ragged and spots of blood come up with the mucus, it's more like a robbed grave - a cedar coffin with the nails pulled out, loose soil in piles around it, and the corpse nowhere to be seen. It's only when Caliban touches the warmth of the other's skin that he can feel reassured that there's still life in those old, tired veins. There's not room enough for two ghosts in this home. 

\---------------------------------------------------

Logan is grateful that Caliban simply scoots aside and drapes the blanket so that it rests over the both of them rather than demand an explanation. He doesn't have one - if he'd come up with an excuse, he's forgotten it. Caliban doesn't face Logan. Logan doesn't face Caliban. They lay with their spines pressed against one another's, and it's enough. It's warm, a little crowded, but enough.

“Good night.” The man beside Logan murmurs into his pillow. A quiet grunt of acknowledgement answers him.

The warmth that had been beside him when he'd fallen asleep isn't there when Caliban wakes. He crawls from his mattress with familiar stiffness and drags himself up onto his feet. A peer out into the living room reveals Logan on the couch. 

“Ah. Of course.”

\---------------------------------------------------

The relationship between Charles and Caliban is, as Logan sees it, complicated. On better days, they're good friends - chatting and discussing books, or teaming up to tease and fuss over Logan. Other days, when Charles is less lucid or caught in a foul mood, it's a battleground. Charles cusses and fights, draining Caliban's patience to the last drop.

“I'll do it myself, thank you very much.”

“If you could do it yourself, I'd let you. But you can't, so hush.” He ignores the spiteful glare boring into him as he begins to clip Charles’ toes, silently grateful that the old man can't use his legs to kick with. 

“Remind me again how you got hired to play nurse?” Charles’ tone is dry and bitter.

Caliban doesn't look up from his work, but is goaded into an annoyed reply, “I'm not playing at anything. Logan needed my help, and I can see why - you give us both too much trouble.”

“Ah, I apologize. In the future I'll try to be a good invalid and not be such a burden.”

The roll of Caliban's eyes precedes the click of his tongue. “If you're trying to guilt trip me, it won't work.”

A disgruntled “Mmh” answers him.

\---------------------------------------------------

Four in the morning arrives with an acrid taste in Caliban's mouth. His guts twist inside him like angry serpents. He stumbles out into the hall and then into the bathroom, clutching his stomach. A moment later he's hunched over the toilet, gripping the rim and drawing in gasps of air in between dry heaves.

It doesn't take long for the offending bile to come up in a bitter stream. Having them dumped into the toilet and no longer in his stomach does make Caliban feel a bit better, but he still stoops miserably over the seat. He's still panting and disoriented when Logan shambles into the small space and bends over Caliban to put a hand to his forehead.

“You got a fever.”

“I could've told you that.” Caliban replies without humor.

“C’mon,” Logan's pulling the other man to his feet and then shouldering his weight, “I'll take you back to bed - then get you some water.”

A minute later and Caliban's batting Logan's hands away from the blanket. “That's enough. I'm not a baby - you don't have to swaddle me.”

“Gonna run to the gas station - get you some medicine. You gonna be alright for a bit?” 

He nearly argues, intending to insist he doesn't need it - but he does. Caliban's no stranger to sickness; the lack of vitamins derived from sunlight, combined with a weak immune system leave him very susceptible to viruses and infections. This isn't something he can easily kick on his own, so he just sighs and nods. Then he asks, “Bring me back a Sprite?”

Logan grunts in acknowledgement and hastily pulls a shirt over his bare chest, slips his bare feet into his shoes, and grabs his keys off the night stand.

\---------------------------------------------------

“How’s Charles?” The voice on the other end asks, sounding worn and tired.

“He’s alright - asleep right now.” Caliban answers, trapping the phone between his chin and shoulder for a moment so he can use both hands.

“And you?” Logan persists, not doing as well of a job as he would like at hiding his anxiety.

“I’m fine.” Caliban replies, hoping to put the other man at ease. “When are you going to be back?”

There’s a pause on the line, and then a contemplative hum. “Should be late tomorrow night.”

“Wake me if I’m not up when you get back.” He directs, knowing full well that it won’t be necessary - he’ll be wide awake. “And be safe.” Caliban adds.

“Yeah, yeah.” Logan’s eye roll can be interpreted just from the dry mutter of his reply. A moment later he puts in a softer, “you too” followed by “I’ll call you later.”

It’s no surprise to find Caliban alert and waiting when Logan returns the following night. His approached was sensed several miles ago. “Took you long enough.” Caliban chides.

“I don’t need you riding me like this after I just got home. Get off my dick.” 

Caliban has to snort derisively only so he can avoid snapping back with a comment that would probably take the innuendo a bit too far.

“Stop smirking - you know what I fucking meant.” 

With his cover blown, Caliban’s just left to laugh as pink floods Logan’s cheeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW at the end of the chapter! Tags include: frottage, biting, oral, fingering.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Sedated by Hoosier  
> https://youtu.be/X-7K2ElrI4o
> 
> Sorry if the formatting is weird - I'll fix it when I get on the computer later.

At this point it's unclear whether this is karma in play, or if they're just supremely unlucky. The power's gone out again in their shoddy little flat, leaving the three occupants without heat. Logan donates his blankets to Charles, unwilling to let the elderly professor do anything but accept them. Outside the wind scoops up piles of snow off the ground and hurls them against the brick. Within just a few hours the temperature inside has dropped nearly 15 degrees.

As of now, Caliban's huddled in his own nest of sweatshirts and blankets while Logan pretends he's not shivering under his single sheet.

“Just come over here you numpty.”

“I'm fine,” an unconvincing grunt answers.

“I can hear your teeth chatter from across the room,” Caliban retorts. “You're freezing.”

There's the relieved groan of the mattress as Logan lifts his heavy skeleton off of it. A moment later Caliban's own bed protests as an extra 300 pounds sinks onto it. Caliban allows the chill to penetrate his cotton fort long enough to invite his guest in. 

“They better get that damn power back on soon,” Logan grumbles as he wedges himself in with Caliban on the narrow mattress. “I don't pay the bills for this shit to happen.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
It had been months since Charles’ last seizure, so this one came abruptly and unexpectedly. Caliban could feel his body freeze up, chest tightening and unable to draw in air. When it ended, he collapsed and lay heaving on the floor.  
Within half an hour, the entire apartment complex was buzzing with confused tenants, all talking about the strange phenomenon that seemed to have affected all of them. It was their fear and bewilderment that finally had Logan cramming the van full of supplies and possessions.  
“We can't stay here - not after that.” He had told Caliban and Charles seriously. “It's not safe for us, and it definitely ain't safe for them.”

“Where will we go?” Caliban had demanded with furrowed brows.

“Dunno yet. We'll figure it out.” Logan was already up - tossing cans and jars of food into a cotton tote. “But we sure as hell aren't gonna stick around here.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------  
“Where are we? What is this place?”

Caliban sighs and shakes his head. “We've been through this: we're in an old steel factory. Logan brought us here to keep us safe, and to keep you from -well, to get us away from people.”

“How long have we been here?” Charles asks, clearly bewildered. 

“About a week.” The albino calmly replies, having been through this discussion nearly every morning since they'd arrived.

Charles only looks more upset by this information. He turns his head to look at the rusted walls that encase his living space. It’s ugly. There was a bed (which he was currently in), his chair, and a table; nothing else decorated the open space. “I've been in this hell hole for a week?” He blanches, turning his attention back to Caliban only so he can shoot the taller man an accusing glare.

“Eat your breakfast.” Is all Caliban says in response, gesturing to a bowl of oats on the table next to the bed.

“You call this breakfast?” The former professor sniffs disdainfully.

“You didn't complain about it yesterday.”

“I don't fucking remember yesterday!” Charles retorts with indignation plain on his face.

Caliban insistently shoves the bowl closer to him. “Eat.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------

“I hope you know you're bruising me,” Caliban complains, eye squinting in a wince while a set of teeth nip at the skin just under his jaw.

“Good-” Logan speaks against the other's throat, “wanna make sure everyone knows you're mine.” The possessive way he growls at the end of his sentence has Caliban's heart jumping up into his throat and a little shock going down his spine. 

His breath hitches before he can come back with any sort of reply as he feels Logan's fingers take hold of his narrow hips and thumbs starting to sensually rub small circles into them. Logan smirks against Caliban's alabaster flesh when he feels his partner give a small shudder.

Despite wanting to sound calm and cool for the show, Logan's pulse is likewise keeping a quick pace. Short, hot breaths from his lungs betray his excitement, and Caliban can surely smell the arousal. In fact, Caliban had caught it the minute he'd walked in the door; Logan had come home reeking of testosterone and want. 

It isn't much longer before he’s pulling Caliban's long legs off to either side and pressing his pelvis into the man below him. He ground down, the fabric of his his jeans making a unique sound as they rubbed against Caliban's. The abused springs in the worn bed squeak with the motions. Caliban wraps his thin arms around Logan's neck and expresses his pleasure with the occasional ‘ah’ or ‘mmnnh.’ 

“Enjoying yourself?” The stockier man teases as he again takes hold of the other's hips and holds them steady while he rolls his own into them.

“I wish I had it in me to lie and tell you no, but…” He grins, face thoroughly washed with a vibrant pink, voice a bit breathless.

By the time Logan actually gets his pants off, Caliban is sporting the color red in splotches on his cheeks, ears, neck, and chest. He moves to put his face between Caliban's now bare thighs, pressing his mouth to the inner side to plant a kiss. While Logan works at leaving his mark on his lover's skin, he takes Caliban's length in one hand and begins to lazily stroke.

“You're incorrigible,” Caliban groans in response to having his thigh nipped at. The twitch of his hips, however, betrays his enjoyment of Logan's biting. 

“Mmhmmm,” Logan sounds, scooting forward an inch so he can take the tip of Caliban's cock into his mouth and pass his tongue over it. This elicits another breathy “ohh” from the man beneath him.

Several minutes and several moans later, Logan's passing the back of his fist over his mouth to wipe away the leftover traces of Caliban's orgasm. 

“Did you… just swallow that?” His lover seems a bit shocked, sitting up to stare down at him with wide eyes and crimson cheeks.

A toothy and wicked grin stares back for a second before Logan moves to seat himself comfortably beside Caliban and take his own member into his scarred hand and beginning to pump.

“I can't bloody believe you,” Caliban's head shakes in wonder for a moment before he hastily pulls Logan's hand away. “Don't do that yourself - what do you think I'm here for?”

To Logan's surprise, Caliban has some tricks of his own. He's laid back to let the other work, eyes closed in contentment, when he feels a pressure against his anus. He pops his eyes open to find two wet fingers pressing their way inside him. “Trying to impress me?” The sass falls a little flat due to the changing color of his face and the way his eyes squint as those digits push deeper.

In minutes, Logan's a mess. Impress may have been the wrong word - overwhelm was much more fitting. It's quite the amazing sight for Caliban to watch The Wolverine himself throw his head back and moan, completely pink-faced and grabbing at the sheets. At the end of a rather hearty “ohhhhh” he pants out a string of, “Fuck. Fuck. Shit, Caliban. Holy shit.” Caliban just smiles adoringly and continues to finger him.

There's something incredible about watching Logan’s chest heave and his spine arch in a manner that strip him of his usual guard. For now, he's moaning and sweating and doesn't give a damn who sees.


End file.
